i held the key (the walls are closed around me)
by aqaws321
Summary: "I've won," she's told, and she replies, "Exactly." Patricia Thornton is not an easily defeated woman.


**Takes place around "sunrise (the ground is stained red)", which takes place in the middle of this story. It's probably pretty easy to tell where.**

 **Inspired heavily by Viva la Vida by Coldplay.**

 **Warnings: mentioned psychological games that could amount to gaslighting, canon-typical violence, angst.**

 **this story takes into play my personal headcanon that Patty had a fiancé that died in the line of fire protecting her. this is also mentioned in some of my other stories, most notably "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night."**

* * *

There's a strain of music floating through the air, a background note, a prelude to action, an epilogue to glory-

The woman prepares herself, standing, rising, crashing, burning.

The music makes its way through the broken window, teasing at the edges of her hearing. This moment's been coming for a long time; she's seen it in the distance for days- weeks- months. She glances to the side, at the door that is firmly shut. Inside that room is a safe, gray and metal and locked with a combination of security measures that will ensure the only way to open it will be to cut it open with a blowtorch.

Hopefully that'll stall them enough for her most trusted employees to arrive, to take the things that reside in there that are precious to her.

A picture. Two rings. A scrap of cloth.

The music stops, cut off as noise explodes around her. Soldiers crash through the doors, shouting for her to surrender herself.

She sinks to her knees, her hands on her head. A woman walks through the doorway, blonde hair pulled back into a braid that exposes her (grinning, smirking, gloating) face. She intones words that have been memorized. They have the distinct ring of having been practiced a thousand times in front of a mirror to give one confidence- strength- conviction.

Her hands are wrenched behind her and she's forced to her feet, tall and cold, brunette hair in a bun, a few wisps of hair falling into her face. They distract from the pain in her eyes. As she's pushed out the door, she hears a whisper from beside her, so soft only she can hear it. "I've won."

She smiles, the pain in her eyes going hard. Exactly, she thinks to herself.

* * *

Prison is not kind to her. She's kept in isolation, her only human interaction the interrogations every day. The laws of the country prevent the more illegal kinds of interrogation, but they do not keep her captors from playing mind games with her.

There are many days where she is unsure of many things, of her life, of reality itself. Still, she clings to a few truths that she knows with her entire being.

Her purpose. Her plan. Her fiancé's name.

The last one is the most important. Even on the days where they make her doubt her own name, she uses the memory of her fiancé talking to her. She takes her name from that memory, and builds on it.

She does not think about the fact that he would be pleased that he is helping her even after he died. She does not think about the fact that he died saving her. She _does not think_ about him innumerable times over the days, drawing strength from him.

The interrogations continue. Then, a deviance. She comes, blond hair loose, free in what seems a mockery of the older woman. They sit there for a long time without speaking. The blonde rises, leans forward. Again, she says, "I've won."

She keeps her head high, speaks the first word she's spoken in weeks other than the responses she gives her interrogators day after day after day. "Exactly."

The woman opposite her draws herself up, confusion evident in her eyes. She demands an answer, but the brunette does not speak. She stares forward, resolute, steady, unwavering.

She is left in silence.

* * *

Other visitors come, ones that it hurts to face. They demand an explanation, a reason, anything. She does not explain. She does not excuse her actions, justify them, claim to have been forced to make the decisions she did.

Her heart is torn apart a bit every time she faces them.

It takes her a long time to gather the materials. But, finally, she is able. She slips a piece of paper under the table to the man sitting across from her. He barely stops it from falling on the floor, instead slipping it inside his sleeve. His face betrays nothing.

She knows he will understand the code.

He leaves, his face still a mask of disappointment, frustration, and- this, this is what cuts her most of all- betrayal.

If she concentrates enough on something else, if she lets her mind drift, she can almost imagine that the cool air blowing onto her neck is her love's hand.

* * *

The room is quiet. The moon shines on the floor, its light the only bright spot in the night.

Her cell door slides open silently. Standing in the doorway is the woman that she helped train, that she's sat across from and watched hold back tears at her apparent betrayal one too many times.

She motions her former mentor forward, holding a finger to her lips.

The older woman follows without hesitation.

They make their way through a series of hallways, all vacant of guards.

Finally, after months, she steps outside. The moon shines on her skin. She smiles.

* * *

They go to their old headquarters. There, they fill her in on the situation. They're all believed to be dead. A note has been left in her cell, claiming that she's been taken for revenge by a crazed assassin that she remembers all too well. They're safe here, for the time being, and they can use this time to make a plan of attack.

They do.

They confront her when she least expects it. They take out her guards- the ones they know are loyal to her- quickly and efficiently. In the moments before she's taken down, she screams, "But I won-"

The brunette cuts her off, standing tall and proud and coldy triumphant. "Exactly."


End file.
